The Plundered Dungeon
The Plundered Dungeon is an encounter in Melody of the Maze. It comes after Runt Punt, Amateur Assassins, Immovable Object, Irresistible Force, or A Tale of Two Tullians. Enemies Transcript Introduction You've never been in a labyrinth before, but you're fairly certain that they don't usually contain pubs -- unless generations of bards and poets have simply neglected to mention the fact. You can only imagine how annoying it would be to deliver barrels of ale to such a place, or find your way out at the end of a night's drinking. Nevertheless, the room before you is unmistakably a tavern. Royal soldiers, orcs, demons, beastmen, and other assorted malefactors sit at its tables or sprawl on the wooden floor. There are tankards in the hands of patrons in the former state, and lying beside those in the latter -- the dark drink spilling across the boards like blood from mortal wounds. The barkeep, a broad-shouldered man with long, grey hair beckons to you from across the room. When you focus on him, tearing your gaze away from the sight of a drunken imp urinating into his tankard, you recognize him at once. "Welcome to The Plundered Dungeon," he says, when you arrive at the other side of the dark oak bar. "What can I get you?" "Roland?" He laughs. It's a warm, deep laugh. "I doubt it. I reckon he has better ways to spend the hereafter than serving ale to a load of drunks. But I think I'm a good substitute." He places a tankard on the bar, sending its frothy contents sloshing up to its lip. "Try this," he says. He picks up a second tankard, places it under a nearby tap, and turns the spigot. As the ale splashes into it, he gestures for you to take a seat. You drop onto one of the barstools and inspect your drink. A sniff, employing your training in the art of poisons along with a whispered spell designed to unveil such things, leads you to believe that it's safe enough. So you lift it in your hand as the barkeep raises his own, and allow the two vessels to clank together. Then you draw it to your lips. It's a strong, sweet ale. A pleasant tipple after your indeterminable time spent wandering the corridors of this bizarre maze. "We're going to fight, aren't we?" you say. "I suppose so. But let's finish our drinks first." "It's not a coincidence, is it? That I'm talking to Roland. Or at least his image." "Doesn't seem likely, does it?" You take another drink. "I knew your ancestor from the start. Back when he spent his days working in the fields and digging up turnips. Always liked him, but I never knew he had the makings of a hero until the war. It's like that sometimes." Roland lifts his tankard to his lips and tilts his head back. The drink he takes seems to epitomize the word 'quaff'. "If the dragons had attacked a couple of decades earlier," he says, "at the height of my old adventuring days, it might have been me instead of him. I could have ridden around on a drake, and ended up with a fancy noble surname slapped on the end of mine. But that's fate for you. And she couldn't have chosen better." This time you both drink at the same moment. When your tankards hit the bar again they're empty -- only a trace of foam left in each to mark the ale's passing. "So," you say, "shall we do this?" "Sure. Let's-" "Oi! Barkeep! Hurry up with more ale!" The shout is accompanied by a loud thud. You look over your shoulder, in time to see the orc hammer his fist down on the table a second time. "If you can't keep up, old man, hire some of Gaz's girls as barmaids!" There are shouts of approval from the orc's comrades, followed by a light barrage of empty tankards in your direction. Roland bats one of the drinking vessels aside, sending it clattering against the wall. "In the mood for a warm-up first?" he asks. You smile and nod. "Good..." Roland reaches under the bar. When his hands come back up, he's holding a sword in each of them -- one of shining orange crystal, the other of gleaming steel. "Closing time, you drunken bastards!" Conclusion Brawl boss unlocked! Steel rings on steel, clunks against crystal. Two pairs of boots shuffle and stomp on wooden floorboards. The only other sounds in the barroom are the hard breathing of two throats and the harp music so intricately woven into your combat that it's barely noticeable as the sound of an instrument. Instead it seems as if reality has become heightened, emphasizing each twitching muscle, every flashing blow. The barroom is deserted but for the two of you, the other patrons having exploded into fog or fled in terror. There are no witnesses to this splendid combat save its participants and the distant musician who serenades you. Roland's swordsmanship is exceptional. In this moment, with his attacks raining down upon you, it seems as if the tales never did him justice -- fell lamentably short of describing his martial prowess. In a contest of bladework alone you know that you're destined to lose. So you draw upon your other talents. You entangle the old adventurer's blades, keeping his twin swords locked in a little dance of steel and crystal while your lips murmur the words to a spell. If you can keep his weapons at bay for just a moment longer... That's when the globule of spit flies over the web of weapons, and hits you square in the eye. You blink. The spell slips from your tongue. When your eyes flick open a fraction of a second later, Roland isn't in front of you anymore. The blow crashes into the back of your head, a thud so hard that even in your disorientation you know it came from the guard of his steel sword. You tumble forward, your senses spinning. Something else smashes into your forehead, a solid, unyielding mass that feels as if it's cracked your skull and smashed your brains into mush. You sprawl on the floor, in the middle of a spinning world. "You have talents that your ancestor didn't." The voice pierces the haze like a sword -- the only clear and solid thing in existence. "He was never trained by fancy tutors like you were. Never studied magic as a boy, or learned the throat-slitters' trade. That gives you an edge, but it's one you have to be wary of. It can make you careless, sloppy. You don't need to be the best swordsman, because you can fire off a spell. You don't need to be the best spellcaster, because you can throw a dagger through the other mage's eye. Good abilities to have, but don't rely on them too much. Never let any of your skills fall short." You don't know how long passes before the world rights itself, and your senses align themselves. But when it happens, when you clamber to all fours and pull yourself to your feet -- grimacing at the splash of blood on the edge of the bar, where you hit your head -- you find that you're alone. Roland is gone. Only the toppled furniture and scattered tankards remain to tell of what took place here. A wistful tune follows you as you leave the bar, mumbling painkilling spells to soothe your aching head. Category:Melody of the Maze